


Hemlock

by Roux



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1st person, F/M, M/M, Marauders, Marauders era, Multi, Self-Insert, Slash, Swearing, relationship undecided
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 12:20:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2150511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roux/pseuds/Roux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I never believed in magic, though I never believed in rebirth either and yet here I am.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hemlock

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I don't have a beta and I don't own Harry Potter.  
> This is a story I've been thinking about writing for a while, I hope you enjoy!

I’ve always thought of death as an abstract concept. Yes, I knew that I would die. Eventually. Everyone does after all. But I have never known a dead person. Not truly. My great uncle on my Mom’s side had died. I met him once. Said a grand total of one word to him as I hid behind my Mom’s pant leg. 

At first I had refused to speak, pressing my face into the back of her knee and hoping to turn invisible. 

“She’s shy,” my Mom had said.

I scrunched up my nose and puffed out my cheeks. I imagine I looked a lot like a monkey as I swung out from my hiding place and stared up at my great uncle. He was old. Really old. All wrinkles and sagging skin. His pants where hiked up mid stomach, his shirt was tucked in, and he wore thick rimmed glasses that made him bug eyed. My hand waved, fingers curling in, in a grabbing manner -- pretending to be the dog-like alien Stitch from my favorite move. “HI,” I said, elongating the word like he would, and wishing to turn blue, with floppy ears and sharp dagger like teeth. Stitch was not shy and nether was I. 

I didn’t see him die. Though I went to his funeral. Persuaded into a black dress by my Mom, I sat on the creaky wooden pews of the church, my sweaty thighs sticking to the lacquered wood, in the hot summers heat for what seemed like days. But, couldn’t have only been more than an hour. I was an impatient child. 

It was a closed casket funeral so I didn’t even get to see his empty soulless body. Later, when I watched the dark mahogany coffin lowered into the cool earth, my only thought was on the sun beating down on me and how stupid it was to wear black in such weather. 

It was the only death I was aware of and one that I couldn’t find it in myself to dredge up an emotion for. Even the loss of animals was squandered on me. I didn’t own any pets. My Mom finding them too expensive and my Dad simply not having the time. And so for eighteen years I’ve thought of death as a worry only for the old.  
How wrong I was. 

 

It took me a long time to realize that I had died. 

I had thought it was a dream at first. Everything was blurry and confusing. My mind couldn’t make simple connections. And the world shifted from lucid to incoherent hour by hour. It wasn’t until months after The Dream had begun that I realized what was happening. I wasn’t dreaming. Well, not all of the time. The confusing, loud, blurring, lucid moments where when I was awake. The incoherent fuzziness was when I dreamed. And I dreamed a lot. It was the side effect of being a baby. Which I was. Literally, plainly, and without doubt. A crying, squalling, smelly, hairless monkey in a dipper and onesie. A blue onsie, which at the time I didn’t put much thought into seeing as I was freaking out about being a freaking baby. 

After I was done panicking which involved screaming. A lot of screaming and crying and a trip to the doctors, courtesy of my new parents whom just happen to be new at parenting and seemed just as afraid of the word new as I was. 

It wasn’t until a man in a lab coat came into the sterile white room in which we where waiting that I fully realized what being a baby meant. It meant I was dead. That my “soul” had left my body and entered this one. It meant that somewhere far away a hollow soulless shell of a boy lay in my bed waiting to be found by my father. And it would be my Dad who found me. I was at his house for the weekend. I imagined my dad’s reaction. Horrified disbelief. He would have to call an ambulance. He would have to tell my mom that her eighteen year old daughter was dead. And she would blame him. She blamed him for everything after the divorce. They didn’t even have a back up child to comfort them. 

I threw up on the doctor’s tweedy bird tie. 

He scowled and deemed me colicky. 

 

Growing up as a reincarnated being, as disbelieving and fantastic as the thought was, was boring. Really horrifically boring. And difficult. Because I was misunderstood. My parents didn’t realize that me staring at my reflection all the freaking ass time didn’t mean I was narcissistic, really, I was just flabbergasted at my appearance. I was blond. Platinum golden curly locks BLOND. With bright glowing blue eyes. I looked like a cherub. Me. Brown eyed, brown hair, plain Jane looked like an angel. 

A fat little baby angel. 

A fat little baby boy angel. 

But as boys go, I was adorable. Not that I’m narcissistic or anything. The fact that I only asked for a hand held mirror for my third birthday – which I got, plastic but still efficient, along with confused and befuddled looks from my parents – means nothing. 

What also bewildered my parents was that I didn’t have a lick of English accent. No, my accent was pure American. Even though we knew no Americans and my parents didn’t deem television as a necessity to human life – which it is by the way – and didn’t bother to own one. (What kind of family have I been born into? No television, really?) My parents where understandable clueless as to where my accent had come from. Though admittedly having a British accent would rock, I am insanely stubborn and refuse to concede to this new way of life.

I think my imaginary friend also unnerved my parents. Not that it was abnormal for a kid my age to have imaginary friends; it’s just that most imaginary friends didn’t reside in a plastic mirror. Not that I believed my reflection was alive or anything. I just needed to talk to someone who understood and if that someone was myself so be it. 

Though one would think that since I was at one point a semi-mature eighteen year old that I would be an easy baby, they would be wrong. I hated being a baby. Everything was frustrating and difficult and seemingly impossible. I KNEW how to walk but for the first year of my life my legs would wobble and collapse under me. I KNEW how to talk and read and write. But stringing together syllables was too much for my tongue, my letters came out shaky and illegible and my mind took the longest time to process the written language. It was annoying. And when I was annoyed I would cry. And I was annoyed a lot. So I cried. A. Lot. 

It didn’t occur to me until I started school that something other than my nationality, parents, age, and body had change. But, as I sat in the small classroom and watched as the teacher wrote the date on the board I realize that I had time traveled. Into the past. Unfortunately. I groaned as I looked at the date. My head dropped onto my desk with a heavy thump. It was 1967. There were no iPods, no laptops, or cellphones in 1967. Was colored television even invented yet? I had to grow up, again, but now I had to do it without the internet! I thumped my head against the desk several times before looking back up. 

My teacher was looking at me oddly. 

I refrained from groaning again. 

 

 

On my tenth birthday my parents took me the London zoo. And though they offered to take one of my friends along with me, I declined saying that I wanted to spend time with them. 

They didn’t need to know that I had no friends. 

I had little patients for children; besides after bashing my head against my desk the first day of class all the other children had deemed me weird. The fact that I talked to myself and ogled at any reflective surface that I passed by (what can I say I was even cuter as a kid than I was as a baby) did not endear me to them. 

The London Zoo was nice in a typical zoo-like fashion. They had animals. All the cool ones were sleeping. And there were a lot of different breads of pigs and deer. I was most excited about the reptile house however, mainly because it was a surprisingly sunny and hot day in London and reptile houses tended to be cool and enclosed. 

I sprung happily away from my parents and headed towards the brightest snake. A small vibrant green tree snake. I pressed my face against the cool glass and looked into its blood red eyes. It appeared to glare at me. 

“Get. Away. Human. Or I will eat you, you hairless ape.” It hissed flicking out it’s tongue.

I stared. “What?” I breathed pulling back, I could see my reflection in the glass my blue eyes where wide with disbelief.

The snake lifted its head in interest. “Oh? A smart hairless ape? How did you learn to speak?”

“I-I w-what?” I stammered. The snake dropped its head against its coils. 

“Perhaps I am wrong,” it hissed in disappointment, “you don’t seem overly intelligent.”

“Hey!” I hissed back. A hand clasped my shoulder and pulled me away from the cage. 

“Come on sweetie, let’s go home.” My Mom said. I turned in her grasp and glared back at the cage. 

Stupid? I scoffed.

“You can’t even swallow a mouse let alone me, shrimp!” I hissed back at it. My Mom dragged me faster. 

“Now he thinks he can communicate with snakes.” I heard my Dad sigh in exasperation, “Hissing like that.” He groaned in pain when my Mom elbowed him in the stomach. 

 

 

I think I was in shock the rest of the day because it seemed to be a blur and soon enough I was lying in my room at night staring up at the ceiling. 

I could talk to snakes. 

Why in the world could I talk to snakes?

Was I insane? My parents thought so. So did my teachers and the children at my school. I didn’t think I was though… well, I hoped not anyway.

I discarded the thought, based sully on the fact that I didn’t want to be insane. I didn’t want my past life to be a figment of my imagination, even though it pained me to think of my family, I loved them and the mare idea that they didn’t actually exist was excruciating. No, I decided, I am not insane. 

Then what? Some mutation? Magic?

Throughout history there have been myths about people with certain affinities for snakes, the Egyptian God Seth for one. Those myths must be based on something right? So a genetic mutation? Or… I scoffed. It couldn’t possible be… I mean just because I’m in England doesn’t mean…

I flicked my bedside lamp on and sat up; pulling out my mirror I looked into my bright blue eyes. “I can’t be in Harry Potter can I?”

My reflection looked at me incredulously. 

“I mean that’s ridiculous right? I would notice strange things wouldn’t I?”

“Well,” my reflection replies in a British accent. (I know it’s really just me replying, I’m not insane… Shut Up.) “Accidental magic happens due to extreme emotion. Take Longbottom for example. He seemed like a calm mellow sort. No extremes of any kind so therefore no accidental magic. If you recall they thought him to be a squib before his uncle threw him out that window and his magic saved his life.”

“Which is messed up,” I reply. My reflection nodded. “But I’m not mellow. Mom and Dad can contest to that.”

“But that’s due to frustration.” The reflection tilts its head in thought. “Frustration is a rather weak emotion, wouldn’t you agree? Nothing like anger or fear. Have you ever been either in this world?”

“No,” I mused. “So what? Should I jump out a window?”

The reflection raised an eyebrow, “Are you an idiot? Do you want to die? What if all you can do is talk to snakes, what if there is no such thing as magic?”

“Fine,” I wave my hand in disinterest. “So lets say, hypothetically of course, I am a wizard. I’m obviously muggleborn, but if so, how can I be a parsle- ah…”

“Parselmouth.” My reflection supplied.

“Right Parselmouth. Isn’t that a pureblood thing?”

“It’s an inherited trait. Dormant, it would seem. We would have to have a witch or wizard ancestor in order to inherit it.”

“Someone from the Gaunt line?” 

“Perhaps.” My reflection frowned, “that of course would mean we are related to—“

“Voldemort!” I gasp, and then paled. “What if he’s my father? What if I’m adopted!” 

“Quiet!” My reflection hissed, “What if you wake them up? Besides you’re blond and blue eyed and gorgeous, might I add? No way you’re related to snake face.”

“Tom Riddle was said to be handsome, you know, before…”

My Reflection waved the thought away, “we look too much life father.”

“He could be our grandfather.” I suggested.

My reflection cringed and then shook his head. “I don’t know. He would have to conceive pretty young…think of the year. Mom was twenty when she had us. Dad was twenty-five. That would mean they where conceived in 1940 or 1935 wasn’t Tom born in the early ‘30s? Besides he was probably at Hogwarts at the time. And as far as we know Gran and Granda’ on either side have no magic.”

“We never met Mom’s side of the family though. And perhaps they where muggle, maybe a student from the orphanage? He went back every summer.”

“Do you really think Tom would sleep with a Muggle? Besides they where terrified of him. I don’t think he wore his nice mask outside of Hogwarts.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t willing on their part.” I said quietly sinking down. “Riddle is sadistic. He likes having power and control over others. I’m not saying he loved or even liked the girl he just wanted to make her suffer.” 

“No.” The reflection shook its head trying to dislodge the thought. “No, there is no use speculating. Tom Riddle might not even exist in this world. If we want to form an actual hypostasis we need to do research.”

“School project?” I suggest. My reflection paused in thought then nodded. A curl fell into his eyes. Even in the dim light my hair glowed like spun gold. “If this is the Harry Potter world…” I bite my lip in thought. “Then we would be going to school with the Marauders, wouldn’t we?”

“We would be two years younger.” My reflection nods.

“Sirius, James, Remus, Lily, Snape. They will all be there.”

“And Wormtail.”

“And Peter,” I acknowledge. “We could change things you know, we could make them better.”

“Or worse.” My reflection said with a frown. I rubbed my forehead, smoothing out the wrinkle between my brows. I’m ten. I don’t want to mar my beautiful face with ugly wrink—“Oh my God!” I gasped staring at my bright vibrant blue eyes. I look around my room in horror, noting all the pictures I owned of myself. Sure, some had my parents in them but most where just me. 

“OH MY GOD!” I said again tasting bile. I throw my blankets aside, jumped up and started pacing. The small mirror held tightly in my hand creaked and I loosened my grip. I stopped in front of the full-length mirror on the far wall. What kind of kid has a full-length mirror in their room? What kind of kid asks for mirrors for their birthday presents? 

“Oh merlin!” I moan. “I’m Lockhart! I’m Gilderoy Freaking Lockhart!”

“No,” My reflection says shaking his head in denial. I stare at the mirror in disbelief.

“Of course I’m him! I’m gorgeous and I’m fully aware of it! Look!” I grab a photo of myself and fling it at the mirror. “I have pictures of myself everywhere! I’m that lying bastard!”

“No.” My reflection snarls bearing his teeth at me, his perfect white teeth. I moan in horror slumping to the floor. “You are Jamie Grimlock! You’re not some weak one spell moron!”

“What’s in a name?” I snarl back, “Do you honestly think that Lockhart wouldn’t change his name and blood status if it would help his image? God it’s probably a pen name! Lockhart. Grimlock. I mean it’s not even that creative.” 

“I refuse to be that fraud!”

“What choice do we have? I mean really,” I sigh in defeat, “we’re probably so pathetically powerless that we might as well give up on magic and go to a muggle school. Lockhart I swear!” 

My reflection fumed. “Lockhart wasn’t a parselmouth, now was he?”

“Maybe he hid it, he doesn’t have to talk to snakes if he doesn’t want to. Besides it would be bad for his public image. He wanted to be viewed as a hero not some dark wizard. I didn’t think he was good looking in the movie,” I mused, “more cheesy than anything. I don’t want to be cheesy.” 

“Well, he must have been handsome in the book at least right?” My reflection said with a strained smirk, “For all those girls to like him.”

“I have always wanted to be an author,” I mumble. Then frowned and scrunched up my nose. “I don’t think I like witches though. Women. Girls. Does that make me straight or gay? I mean my soul is a girl though my body is male.”

My reflection shrugged, “whatever it is, it’s probably not best for this time period. It could be worse, mind you, at least we aren’t in the dark ages where they would burn you as kindling at the bottom of a stake with a witch tied to it.”

“Lovely image there. They wouldn’t need the witch then, now would they? Two in one, that’s me. What about the wizarding world?”

“They’re backwards in everything! Do you really think they wouldn’t be in this as well? Besides, if Rita Seeker? Was that her name? Anyways,” the reflection waved his hand, “if her book about Dumbledor and Grindelwad is anything to go by and the reaction it received…”

“Yeah, but was that reaction due to him being a guy or him being a mass murdering dark lord?”

“I just highly doubt this will be anything but bad, Jamie.” My reflection sighed. 

“Lockhart.” I said, with a sigh. “I’d rather be Wormtail!”

“You don’t honestly mean that, do you?”

“We’d have pretty awesome friends.”

“Yes, but we would be fearful instead on Narcissistic. We would probably end up betraying them in the end.”

“Never!” I denied.

“You’re not him, you don’t know.”


End file.
